


Riders On The Storm

by CaughtAGhost (ghosthan), ghosthan



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Angst, Background Tony/Natasha, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Fire, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hallucinations, Happy/Ambiguous Ending, Homophobia, Infidelity, M/M, Remix, Survival, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29603955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosthan/pseuds/CaughtAGhost, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosthan/pseuds/ghosthan
Summary: "I don't think help is coming."Tony falls into a hole he can't claw himself out of.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 39
Collections: 2021 Captain America/Iron Man Remix Madness





	Riders On The Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [comfort zone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29411568) by [Welcoming_Disaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welcoming_Disaster/pseuds/Welcoming_Disaster). 
  * In response to a prompt by [Welcoming_Disaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welcoming_Disaster/pseuds/Welcoming_Disaster) in the [2021_Cap_Ironman_Remix_Madness](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2021_Cap_Ironman_Remix_Madness) collection. 



> A remix of 'comfort zone' set now in the Ults universe, featuring the wackiness, homophobia, erotic tension, and gritty, problematic charm of Ultimates. Please see end notes for detailed/spoilery content warnings and more notes from me!
> 
> This fic was written and edited like, 48 hours before it was due, also, so I apologize in advance for possible errors I missed.
> 
> Dedicated to Welcoming_Disaster, please enjoy :)
> 
> Edit:  
> Now authors have been revealed so I can link my [tumblr!](https://ghosthan.tumblr.com/) come talk ults (or anything else) to me!

* * *

Steve isn’t going to be happy, and Tony’s head is killing him. Early to the airport and dressed in Tom Ford, Tony makes camp at the bar and slurps at the dregs of a frozen margarita through a curly straw. Breakfast of champions.

Just when he thinks the agenda is settled for the day, it rapidly goes to hell. It’s not even a real mission; the Ultimates had been scheduled ahead of time to do a short tour of some speck-on-the-map European country, shake some hands, and make nice with a certain foreign dignitary. Incidentally, the very same foreign dignitary happens to be the last on Nick Fury’s wish-list of politicians in not-yet his pocket. Regardless, it isn’t meant to be such a struggle.

This morning, head hanging in the toilet, Tony had received a very angry message, which turned into a series of unpleasant phone calls on his bathroom floor, in his underwear. They discover that Natasha is not actually welcome in the country they’re scheduled to land in, and Bruce Banner isn’t welcome anywhere.

Then Hank gets tied up in the lab—fine— but the last straw, really, is Janet cancelling for ‘totally unrelated reasons’ just half an hour later.

Tony has half a mind to leave Hank a strongly worded text message about trying to control his wife, because the issue is so transparently the idea of Jan being alone with Cap and Tony for the day. Sure, Steve will be grinding his teeth to dust trying and failing to play diplomat, a bull in a china shop, and Tony will be hugging a trash can, puking his brains out between photo-ops, but somehow they’ll find time to spirit her away and seduce her out of her marriage vows. Sure, Hank.

Not to mention that Tony is an engaged man. 

He plucks the straw out of his glass and tips the salted rim to his lips, downing the last swallow of slush. This leaves Tony and Steve, going alone, and he hasn’t actually broken the news yet; he briefly considers telling Steve that Jan cancelled just as the plane takes off, but Steve might just jump out of the plane.

Then his phone rings, and the choice is taken from him.

Steve doesn’t take it well.

“Listen, she’s not coming. I’m just passing along the message, Rogers, don’t shoot the messenger,” Tony says. “She bailed, it is what it is. And it looks like it’ll be just you and me.” He holds the phone between his shoulder and his ear, messaging his opposite temple with one hand, and flagging down the bartender with the other.

“This is pointless. Can’t you reschedule?” Steve says.

“Don’t try and be the brains now, Steve.”

“Fine.”

“It should be easy, in and out, shake hands, smile for a picture. The flight will take longer than the job,” Tony assures him. Behind the bar, the margarita blender screams and whirs, pulverizing ice and tequila as the bartender salts the rim of a stemmed glass. Tony sucks on the husk of a used lime from the bottom of his first drink. He holds up two fingers, and mouths, “Make it two more.”

“Are you _at a bar?_ ” Steve asks, incredulously. Not for the first time, Tony regrets Steve’s resistance to just communicating via text, like everyone else in this century.

“I’m at the _airport_ bar,” Tony corrects him, “Why don’t you meet me for a drink before lift off, might help loosen up that stick up your ass.”

Tony is edgy, and it’s coming across more than he intends. Ironically, flights still make him nervous. In fact, after becoming accustomed to piloting the armor, he’s even more anxious about sitting strapped into a plane in civilian clothes while someone else is behind the controls. Between that and the stress of being the only person trying to salvage the day’s events, Tony could stand to put away a few drinks. He deserves it.

“This is exactly why I— forget it,” Steve says, his exasperation loud and clear even through the phone, “I’m leaving you here, I’ll handle the meeting alone.”

“Remind me, Cap, where are we headed, again?” Tony says.

Steve pauses. Struggling through the syllables, he hazards an incorrect guess, “Ka…. Sta…Zha—”

“So close. I think you better let me tag along.” The bartender slides two fresh drinks in front of Tony, the glass sweating with condensation.

“I’m dumping you at the gate if there’s liquor on your breath,” Steve grunts, conceding, “Sober up. I’ll be there in twenty.”

Tony grimaces; he’s only had the one drink, and with his tolerance, it does nothing to settle his nerves or dull the throbbing in his skull that just seems to get worse and worse. After spending his morning hungover and sick from chemo, he hadn’t been able to hold down anything but a few sips of ginger ale in the car riding over to the airport.

He had spent his morning on the bathroom floor smelling his own vomit, and he isn’t exactly proud of how fast his mood had plummeted into a dark and lonely place. A man in his position should be better adjusted to the crippling despair of perpetual loneliness, chronic illness and the expiration date stamped in red on life. Sobbing in the fetal position in his underwear, and spitting up bile, the only thing that had motivated him to scrape himself up off the floor was the fact that the Ultimates _needed_ him. At least, they needed him to take the brunt of Fury’s bad people skills. And they needed his money. And his schmoozing experience. Not that any of his teammates probably even thought of how much work went into those matters; it’s not as flashy as the punching bad guys and jumping out of airplanes, but it’s important work. That’s what he tells himself.

That, and the fact that deep down, Tony loves roleplaying as a hero right there next to the living legends of their time. Tony doesn’t admit that part.

Steve hangs up on Tony before he can argue, and for a moment, Tony wonders if he should have taken the chance to get off the hook for the day. Call Natasha and talk her into a quickie at the hotel airport, maybe a little roleplaying of another kind that would surely be more fun than a tense transatlantic flight with Captain Red-White-And-Blue.

Instead, he mournfully pushes away the fresh set of margaritas and stuffs his phone into his pocket. “No need to get testy, Cap,” he mutters under his breath, to himself. “Anything for you, Cap. You’re the boss, Cap. Better get here before I change my mind, _Cap._ ”

The bartender clears his throat, staring at Tony like a man who has lost his mind. “You know you still hav to pay for those?”

“Trust me,” Tony sighs, fishing his American Express out of his wallet, and trying to ignore the pulsing in his temples, “I’m paying for it already.”

* * *

After logging so many hours in the Iron Man armor, Tony should be used to plummeting through the air, yet it never gets easier. Falling scares him. Every time.

As the plane’s nose tilts down, the engine whines loud enough to drown out whatever Steve is shouting at the unconscious pilot. It’s like being stuck in slow motion; Steve is saying something, shaking his shoulders, and Tony vomits on himself. Through thick cloud cover, he can see the mountains rushing up to meet them out the window. He thinks, if he survives this, no one will ever talk him into flying so nearly sober ever again.

“We’re gonna die,” he says. He should have drank the damn margaritas; God knows the pilot hadn’t deprived himself.

Impact.

* * *

It is, perhaps, a new low for Tony. Having survived the crash, he crawls back into the burning wreckage, looking for something. His phone? Something to build a signal with? The radio? No. In that moment, nerves fried, adrenaline blunting logic, Tony is looking for the flask he had seen clipped to the pilot’s belt.

The flames looks like silk. He can almost pretend not to hear Steve screaming at him over the ringing in his ears. It’s claustrophobic— like crawling into an oven— shimmying on his stomach into what’s left of the cockpit. A wall of fire, reeking of black smoke and jetful, separates Tony from the mangled corpse of the pilot. The flask gleams flickering silver, warped by the heat. Tony makes a choice: he reaches into the fire—

* * *

Steve’s opinion of Tony will never recover from this, he thinks. Not that the good old Captain ever seemed to be Tony’s biggest fan. Steve plants himself between Tony and the crash site, watching in undisguised repulsion as Tony convulses and vomits— for the third time today. The smell of his own burnt flesh doubles the nausea, and the pain is beyond words. He’s cooked— and definitely concussed from the crash.

He finishes throwing up and shivers.

“Gross. God.”

“Is it from the pain, do you think? Or shock?” Steve asks. “Or maybe the alcoholism.”

“I had a drink this morning, I’m not going into withdrawals,” Tony says. It’s not that he’s proud— Steve should be able to smell the tequila in the sick puddle.

Steve shrugs. “Not my area of expertise.” But his jaw flexes, tense, eyeing Tony’s burnt arm; he’s worried and not hiding it well. As much as Tony would like to flatter himself that Steve cares about him on some personal level, it seems far more likely that the concern is the result of the severity of Tony’s injuries rather than his status of endearment to the good old Captain.

“If you had just been a second later,” Tony says, “I could have gotten it. Only needed another second. Less than that. I had it in my finger tips.”

“Another second and you might be dead.”

“Dramatic.”

“I’ve seen a man burn to death,” Steve says. “You don’t want that.”

“I don’t want _this_ , either. I could at least be numbing the pain right now,” Tony snaps. If it’s pathetic, Steve doesn’t point it out. If he sounds desperate, he pretends not to notice.

“I saved your life,” Steve says. There’s a touch of confusion in his voice, almost hurt. He’s probably used to people being more appreciative for his services— or at the very least, not openly resentful. The tiny crease forming between his brows, the earnest disappointment— it isn’t that he expects thanks, Tony thinks. Steve has never been quite so entitled, he isn’t a man used to getting his way. It’s something else which Tony can’t put his finger on.

He smiles, sardonic, and attempts to sit up. Another dry heave wracks his body in response to the pain; his arm, all burnt flesh melted together with his clothing, cracks and weeps. The pain sings louder than any other feeling he’s known. Brighter and hotter than the driest third, or the worst heartbreak. Worse than chemo. Worse than a plane crash. Stronger than lust or love or desire— he forgets the taste of tequila, he forgets his own fiancee’s face, for a moment, in the aftershock of the pain.

“Stop moving, you’re making it worse,” Steve says, helpfully.

“Cut it off. We should cut it off.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“You do it, I can’t do it, I’m going to throw up. Just, cut it off of me.”

“You did this to yourself,” Steve says, but Tony can tell Steve isn’t oblivious to the amount of pain he’s in. “All for a drink. I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t,” Tony says through grit teeth, staying as still as possible, riding out the pulsing wave of agony. It doesn’t go away, but the searing brightness dulls after a moment of slow breathing.

Steve stares up over Tony’s head, where smoke from the crash climbs toward the heavens. There’s no sun today, and the layer of cloud cover troubles Tony. Steve frowns, shielding his eyes from the light with one hand. The smoke almost seems to disappear amidst the clouds in the angry sky. From their vantage point, tucked between two crests of a mountain Tony doesn’t know the name of, there isn’t civilization to be seen in any direction.

“I don’t think help is coming,” Tony says.

Steve frowns. “Give it time. We’re going to be okay.”

* * *

The sun sinks toward an unseeable horizon behind the clouds. Steve’s restless, but for Tony’s sake, he doesn’t try and force him to move.

“I don’t think help is coming,” Steve says, after a long time.

Tony smiles, sad. “Give it time.”

* * *

It starts to rain, just in time to distract Tony from the way his hands have begun to shake. This is a blessing and a curse. The heavens part and the deluge begins,fat raindrops falling at a slant with the wind. They have been without water for a long while. Tony hasn’t attempted to count the hours (his watch hadn’t survived the fire, and his phone was long gone), but the dryness in the back of his throat and the changing light tells enough.

Tony isn’t faring well; they both took damage in the crash, but it’s superficial on Steve. He’s walking like one side is sore, and there’s an ugly, bleeding gash already knitting itself together above his brow, but he managed to escape the fire unscathed.

Tony has been slipping in and out of delirious sleep, waking just to piss (which hurts), or to endure Steve’s poor bedside manner as he checks Tony’s pupils for signs of concussion.

The rain smothers what’s left smoldering of the jet fire.

In this lifeless terrain, Tony doesn’t expect they’ll be able to find enough material to start another signal fire, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy moaning in wanton pleasure, mouth open, drinking rain as it lands on his hot, dry tongue.

“Fuck,” he sighs, shaking his hair as it becomes shaggy and damp, and then he tilts his mouth back open and greedily swallows more rain. When he opens his eyes, he sees— just for a moment— that Steve is staring at him. The second Tony catches his eye, Steve diverts his gaze.

“We’re going to need water. I’m going to the crash to look for something to save it it.”

“God gave you a mouth.”

“What?”

“Open your mouth,” Tony says.

Steve gets up off the ground with a poorly hidden wince; he’s hiding more injuries than Tony may have initially thought. Softer, Tony says, “Come on. Trust me, it feels good.”

Two spots of color appear high on Steve’s filthy cheeks. He stares at Tony, slack jawed, as though taken aback by the suggestion that he might open his mouth because another man asked him to. Because it would _feel good_.

But then, he parts his cracked, dry lips and tilts his chin toward the sky. Water runs down his jaw, leaving trails in the dust and blood and soot caked to his skin. He swallows, mouth overflowing with rain; for a moment, Tony forgets his own pain, distracted by Steve’s whisper quiet sigh of pleasure.

A minute later, Tony makes the decision to tag along with Steve back to the wreckage. Limping, Tony can still walk but it’s easier leaning on Steve for support. He keeps his injured arm tucked close to his body to prevent it being too disturbed by the motion, and if Steve notices the tremor in Tony’s other hand, he doesn’t say anything.

Embarrassingly, it’s exactly what Steve had accused him of earlier. Tony is beginning feel the effects of going so long without a drink. Not that it’s even _been_ that long, but it has certainly been longer than his body is used to.

Steve guides them through the uneven terrain strewn with jet parts. “I’m going to try and figure something out to carry water with,” Steve says, stepping over a rock and stumbling.

“Are you okay?” Tony asks.

“It’ll heal,” Steve says, even though that hadn’t been the question. Tony’s always been quick to numb his pains, to drown his sorrows, to make light. He’s a hedonist, loud and proud, and he has always thought of Steve as something of a puritan. Watching Steve keep a stiff upper lip, limping away on what seems like a serious ankle injury, Tony suddenly wonders how much of that puritan charm is not just denying himself pleasure, but hurting in silence.

“I’ll keep the pilot company,” Tony says, once Steve is too far away to hear him, having gone around to the other side of the crash sight.

Gravel crunches beneath his feet as he hobbles over to the torn open, burnt out cockpit. Rain pelts against the sheets of metal which had made up the outer wall, and it sounds like a summer storm under a tin roof. Tony closes his eyes and sits, with a grimace, and he thinks about being somewhere far away. Somewhere warm, on a lake. Drink in hand, he would be in his bathing suit, a red Speedo, and Natasha would be there to massage sunscreen into his shoulders. He lets his imagination pull on that thread for a while, to its natural end, (Natasha, sunbathing in nothing after Tony spends himself on her stomach,) and then the fantasy wanders.

Steve is there, in star spangled swim trunks. No, he wouldn’t be so flashy. Something plain. Tony puts him in a Speedo, too, then— because it’s his daydream, and admittedly, he enjoys the idea of Steve squirming to preserve his modesty. And he doesn’t start a crusade against himself, thinking about Steve like that. It doesn’t mean much; Steve’s a fit, strong, obnoxious person. Anyone would want to make him squirm.

He opens his eyes and tilts his head back, leaning against a rock beside the blacked skeleton of the pilot.

“What’re you looking at?” Tony says, staring into the empty eye sockets of the skull. It stares back at him, jaw hanging at a sickening angle. “This is your fault, you know.”

Suddenly curious, but not very hopeful, he turns his attention to the ground to see if the flask miraculously survived somehow. Hand tremoring, he brushes soggy ash away and unburies what remains of it— melted, warped, and empty. Just like Tony.

The rain grows colder and he sees his own breath. It gets dark. Tony slips into some kind of shock, maybe. He feels real nauseous. He feels really sick. He’s shaking hard, and it’s in part caused by the cold. What he needs is a drink. God, to die sober. What a cruel thing.

Steve comes back, some amount of time later, hair flattened to his head and tattered uniform clinging to his body like some kind of pin-up calendar. He’s carrying a piece of metal, warped into the shape of a dish, filling with rainwater in his hand.

Steve tells him they have to move, something about looking for shelter. Tony doesn’t hear him very well because his pulse is so loud in his ears. He looks up in the dark and sees that the cut o Steve’s forehead has healed, leaving a puckered scar.

Tony says that he’s never gone this long without a drink, and Steve is quiet for a long time as they start the trudge across the barren, unforgiving landscape.

* * *

They walk for a long time, in hopes of seeing something that could be used for shelter, or signs of life. The rain stops, but the ground remains wet and the air cold.

“Do you need to rest?”

“Not yet,” Tony says. There’s no moon tonight. “It’s a lovely night for a walk.” Tony’s more half limping, half being dragged than walking, but Steve’s mysterious ankle injury seems to have healed enough to put some strength back in his step.

“You don’t strike me as an outdoorsman, particularly.”

Tony chuckles. “You got me there. If there’s not bottle service or bikinis, I’m not interested.”

It’s dark and Tony’s lagging; he hadn’t noticed just how much he’s slowing them down until he stumbles and Steve doesn’t even break pace, just keeps dragging him along.

“Walking, like this, reminds me of the war,” Steve says. It’s a bit of a non sequitur; Tony glances up, trying to see Steve’s face; he stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance, some finish line invisible to all but himself.

“Do I remind you of your war buddies? Comrades in arms?”

“No.” Steve pauses. “Well, not really.”

“I think I’d be left stateside to keep all the girls company. Not sure they draft soldiers with tumors pressing on their brains,” Tony says cheerfully. “Might affect my decision making.”

“Is that what the doctors say?”

Tony shrugs, noticing how Steve has skillfully diverted the conversation back off of himself. “I don’t think I would have agreed to join the team is I was fully in my right mind.” He plays it off like a joke, but there’s more truth than he’s comfortable admitting.

“I don’t think it’s crazy, to want to do the noble thing,” Steve says, “That’s called courage.”

It’s such a classically heroic thing to say, almost a caricature of the legend— Captain America, stars, stripes, and courage. What an odd pair they make; Tony, so wrapped up in silk and smoke and feathers he can’t remember how to be genuine, and Steve, who seems to be exactly who he claims to be, at every moment of every day, like it’s no choice. Before they defrosted him, Tony wouldn’t have believed that it wasn’t at least partially an act— the man from the newsreels giving soap box speeches, rallying the troops to choose their patriotic duty and find glory in death.

But here he is.

“Is it still courage, I wonder,” Tony says, “If it took a terminal diagnosis to grow a pair.”

“Of course it is.” Steve is resolute, and Tony thinks he understands how Steve was able to lead hundreds. “There’s nothing braver than trying to do something good with the time you’re given. Everyone’s dying. It’s easier to waste it.”

Something twists in Tony’s stomach; he knows a thing or too, about waste. He stumbles again. “Those sure are pretty words, Captain. But it won’t matter for long.”

The conversation lulls, and Tony doesn’t mean to, but he’s putting nearly all his weight on Steve.

“I think we should rest, soon. A few more minutes. When we get over this peak we should be able to see better,” Steve says.

“Whatever you say. I could walk all night.”

* * *

Not soon enough.

The fall is far but it happens fast. They don’t even see the drop-off until they’re upon it. It’s too dark. They’re too tired. Tony is asleep on his feet, and he’s leaning hard on Steve, who is also tired, and both his hands are full— one supporting Tony, and the other with their meager water container.

Tony steps first, and despite the rain having subsided hours ago, the ground is slick. He pitches over the side in near free-fall. If the ground had been dry, maybe Steve would have been able to keep them both over the edge, gripping Tony tighter reflexively. Maybe if Steve had let go of Tony, let him fall, Steve wouldn’t have fallen himself.

But it doesn’t go like that; they fall together, Steve dragged down with Tony. It’s a blind fall in the moonless night. Tony is too shocked to scream as his body bounces and slides down the cliff, flesh tearing open against rock, bones breaking, something inside of him bleeding.

At the bottom of the hole, there is only pain and blackness.

* * *

“Steve?"

“I’m over here.”

“Are you alive?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Can you sit up? Can you move?”

“Easy, Christ. Buy me dinner first.”

“This doesn’t look good. Can you feel—”

“—Fuck, ow, yes, I can feel it.”

“What about this?”

“What?”

“Oh. That’s not good.”

* * *

Here are the facts as Tony knows them: it’s his fault that they’re in a hole. It’s his fault that Steve is uncomfortable around him. It’s his fault that—even without his injuries— he would be totally useless, in the throes of alcohol withdrawals. The icing on the cake is the shame that comes with it, hands shaking, nauseous, every jumbled train of thought running through his head seems to come back to the image of an ice cold martini, a sickening thirst burning inside of him that cannot be sated with what little water they have.

Tony fractured a rib falling, but the really concerning thing is that he can’t feel or move on of his legs. He plays it down to Steve, but Tony wonders if it’s a spine injury. Either way, there’s no way he’s going anywhere, and the cliffs enclosing them are so steep that he doesn’t expect Steve to be able to get far, either.

On the bright side: he will certainly die before Steve does, which means he will not die alone. He’s selfish: he would condemn Steve to that lonely fate if it meant sparing himself. It’s not an insignificant silver lining. Tony has spent a lot of time, in recent months, mentally preparing himself for death, and when he imagines it, he’s always alone. He’s always in pain. At least he seems to have defied one half of that particular prophecy.

Ha. Take that, brain tumor.

Of all missions to die on. He’s quietly relieved that Natasha, and the rest of the Ultimates, couldn’t come. It suddenly seems more like fate than inconvenience. He wonders how she will take the news of Tony’s death. It isn’t a pleasant thought, but not for the reasons you might expect.

“All that pacing isn’t going to do anything but wear a track in the ground, darling,” Tony says in that cloyingly sweet tone that he knows grates at Steve’s nerves. Predictably, Steve’s scowl deepens, made more serious by the fresh blood crusted in his eyebrows hairs from the fresh cut on his face.

“I’m thinking,” Steve says.

“Don’t strain yourself.”

Tony sighs and tries to shift position, stiff and uncomfortable from spending so much time in the same position. It has been hours, cold and stiff on the hard ground, his little craving growing worse and worse with time. He doesn’t mention it to Steve, because he doesn’t see a point, but Tony’s sweating all over. It’s disgusting and uncomfortable. He reeks. And he can’t seem to stop shaking.

“You’re not even trying,” Steve says, jaw tight. For the hundredth time since the sun rose, Steve looks up at the tiny window of sky visible through the mouth of the cave, at least twenty feet above their heads. If Tony could draw— and if he had a steadier hand— he would like to draw Steve from this angle. There’s something artistic about the view of his lantern jaw from below, stubbled but hardly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he anxiously swallows. His neck is too thick to fit both hands around, Tony bets. All muscle and tendons and vein.

“Ah, there it is. Tell me how you really feel,” Tony says. He’s poking at a bee’s nest. One thing has become clear over the past few rocky hours: Steve doesn’t take well to being trapped and helpless.

“Everything’s always a joke with you, isn’t it.”

“At least I know when to stop beating a dead horse,” Tony says. “At least I know when to quit.”

“I think quitting’s all you know,” Steve says. “Except where it might count.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look like hell. Your drinking problem, biting you in the ass, I’d guess. But you don’t have anything to say about that, do you? And now I’m stuck with you. Dead weight. Am I supposed to be glad?” Steve says, gesturing stiffly, cold, “Am I supposed to take a load off, kick my feet up, and wait with you to die?”

“Are you trying to tell me,” Tony begins slowly, feigning seriousness, “That now might not be the best time to quit drinking? You’re right. I’ll try and reschedule withdrawals for a week from today, will you check my calendar? Actually, let’s make it next month, see if they can hold a bed for me at a cushy rehab center.”

Steve’s lip curls in frustration. “God, you don’t turn off.”

“Give it time, I’m sure I’ll shut up for good soon enough,” Tony says in a sardonic sing-song voice.

Steve clamps his mouth shut, a vein popping out in his neck. He knows Tony’s right, and he has just enough respect not to snap back at the dying guy. Lightening his tone, Tony pats the ground beside him and says, “This might be the best thing to ever happen to you, Cap. You work too hard. Enjoy yourself. Relax. We’ll order mai tais and a message.”

Steve goes back to ignoring him, and it’s probably for the best. Tony leans his head back against the rock and Steve goes back to pacing.

“I think I’m going to try to climb out,” Steve says.

Tony scoffs. “You’re lucky enough that the first fall didn’t snap your spine. Why tempt fate?”

“We’ll die either way. I’ll be fine.”

“You always are,” Tony says, his smile the color of ash, “Until one day, you aren’t.”

The clouds have begun darkening again, and ominously, as though to emphasize Tony’s point, thunder rumbles in the distance. When the wind starts, it skims the mouth of the cave and creates an empty howl— like the sound produced by blowing across the rim of a bottle. It makes Tony feel sick again.

“Sounds like we’re going to get more weather,” Tony says with a grin. He’s starting to lose the thread, a little. He tastes blood on his teeth and he knows he must look ghastly, smiling like that in the dark. There’s just something intangibly humorous about the situation. You have to laugh, sometimes.

There must not be one person on Earth Steve would less wish to be stuck with, not one member f the Ultimates more useless and abhorrent to him that Tony Stark— and Tony, sitting here looking like a Halloween decoration, is just grateful to have some cheerful company as he circles the drain.

The rain starts in slow drips.

“Better if I try now, while there’s light and the rock is still sort of dry, before—” But Steve is cu off by another crash of thunder, and a fat raindrop lands on his cheek. It’s too late. Dumbly, Steve touches the wet spot on his face and looks at his fingertip. He reaches his hand out to feel for droplets, and it starts coming down harder. Lightning cracks across the sky, illuminating Steve in white light for a split second, throwing flashing shadows around the cave. Tony remains tucked away in darkness, beneath an overhang where rock shields him from the rain.

Once more, smug, Tony pats the space beside him in invitation. “Want to come out of that rain before you catch your death?”

It pours in slow motions, almost glowing in the narrow beam of natural light falling toward the center of the cave. Steve stands there as if in a broken spotlight, frowning at the sky, his ruined uniform turning dark with water.

“It would take a lot more than a little rain to kill me,” he says, always so stubborn, as though it would be a detriment to his character to enjoy a moment’s rest. As though nothing would emasculate hm worse than stepping out of bad weather with another man. Maybe it’s not about Tony at all. Sometimes, for someone so honest, so open, Steve can be difficult to understand.

“Suit yourself.”

Tony shivers.

It has been at least a full twenty-four hours since Tony’s measly pre-flight drink, and he isn’t feeling well. He’s irritable. He’s anxious, jumpy. At least, with nothing in his stomach, the heaving has mostly stopped.

He doesn’t realize he’s hallucinating the first time it happens, because it’s so minor.

A trick of the light. A dark mass, motion, in the corner of his vision. A trick of the light.

And then the sound of the rain drumming against stone starts to sound almost like a musical instrument. Tony’s an intelligent man, but he isn’t the expert on cave acoustics. It isn’t foolish to think there could be an unusual sound effect produced by rainfall just in the right position causing a sort of twinkling sound. Tony cocks his head, straining with a curious expression to listen.

“Do you hear that?” He says. Steve doesn’t stop pacing or even look at Tony.

“Hear what? The rain?”

“Yeah but—” Tony shuts his eyes and listens. “It’s like an instrument. It’s like a xylophone. Weird, right? I never heard anything like it. Must be the acoustics?”

That’s when Steve stops misstep, and glances over his shoulder at Tony with an inscrutable expression.

“Oh, it stopped.” Tony frowns.

Steve stares.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“I think you’re hearing things.”

Ah.

Somewhere in his head, Tony remembers the stages of withdrawals. He’s been through rehab once or twice, but he’s never really gone through it terribly. He’s always had the cash to shell out for the nice places that really hold your hand and give you meds to get you through the worst of it— and sometimes, when Tony wasn’t quite as dedicated to getting well, he had no trouble smuggling in a secret stash to get him past the shakes.

He’s way beyond the shakes, now. Audio and visual hallucinations start around the twenty-four hour mark, a voice in his head helpfully supplies.

Steve’s looking at him like he’s lost his fucking mind, and Tony briefly considers playing it off as a joke. Thankfully, Steve looks away, chewing his life, and says, “They’ll be looking for us. They’ll track the plane and figure out where it went down, and help will be here, soon.”

“Say it once more, this time like you actually believe it,” Tony says.

“When the rain dries, I can climb out,” Steve goes on. “I can start a signal fire.”

“Well that’s a good idea. A signal fire,” Tony says. Steve looks over at him suddenly, as though surprised to hear that they’re in agreement. Tony adds, “Although, I’d think that if the key to our rescue depended on a fire, perhaps the burning fucking airplane would have worked more to— _ack_ — our favor.”

He coughs. It turns into another round of dry heaving. He’s used to that.

He’s not so used to what comes next.

He opens his eyes a second later and he’s flat on his back staring up into Steve’s terrified face.

“Tony?” Steve says. His voice sounds so far away. Everything sounds off. Tony can’t tell if it’s still raining or his ears playing tricks on him again.

When he tries to speak, he chokes on hot liquid in his throat. Turning his head to the side, he spits out what turns out to be a mouthful of blood— and what he thinks might be the tiniest chunk of his own tongue— onto the gravel.

“Hey, are you with me?”

“Always, darling,” Tony replies, sounding about as bad as he feels. “What happened?”

“I think,” Steve says, frowning, “You had a seizure.”

“Ah.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Oh, I’m doing great.” He tries to sit up, forgetting his injuries until he puts weight on them; pain shoots through his body and he feels the color drain from his face as he bites back a strangle sound. “Actually, I’m feeling a little green.”

“Here.” Steve brings the metal container to Tony’s lips so he can gingerly sip rain water.

“Has the ever happened to you before?”

“Not quite like this.”

“What caused it? The withdrawals?” Steve asks, “The concussion? The tumor?”

Tony’s wondering the same thing on the inside; all the questions overwhelm him and he can’t get his heart to stop racing. The anxiety is suffocating— whether or not the _person_ fears death, the _body_ does, and it rages against it with everything.

He tries not to let it show. “Doesn’t make any difference. Bad news wither way. What do I know, I’m no a doctor,” he says, “Luckily I’ve got the lovely nurse Rogers to care for me. Too bad you don’t have a little outfit to suit the part. Or a sweeter bedside manner.”

It’s just a joke, and Tony isn’t even thinking, so he’s caught off guard when Steve reacts.

“Why do you always have to do that?” he says, surprisingly sharp in tone considering how carefully he has been handling Tony. “The jokes, the comments, I’m not _gay._ I’m not a woman. I’m not, whatever the hell you are.”

Tony hides his surprise. “Metrosexual,” he helpfully supplies.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“Testy, are we?”

Steve barks out a laugh, dry and openly pissed in a way that Tony isn’t used to, from Steve— yet, it’s clearly just a glimpse into some deeper dwelling anger that lives under the skin, magma bubbling beneath volcanic crust. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? Oblivious, so naive that— I bet you think half the things you say go right over my head— Or maybe you _know_ that I know what you think of me, and you get some kind of kicks out of making me uncomfortable.”

“Now that you mention it, it’s some mix of the two,” Tony says.

But Steve’s done joking.

“You’re not the first, Stark,” he says; the way his voice drops low sends a chill up Tony’s spine, “And you won’t be the last.”

Tony’s treading dangerous waters, but he can’t help himself. His throat tastes like copper and his pulse thrums. All his pain— the stabbing in his head, the dizziness and third degree burn going septic, his broken bones and the rotting itch of his ruined flesh, the withdrawals, the mortal despair— it all goes quiet. For a moment, all the noise in the world goes hushed by the exhilaration of balancing on a razor’s edge. Tony shivers, almost frightened by the darkness that flashes in Steve’s clear, blue eyes. The terror only heightens the thrill, and Tony isn’t sure which he wants more: to make Steve _snap_ , for him to lose all that careful control, or to make Steve, in all his stubborn fury, _bend_ for Tony.

It’s only then that Tony realizes they’re only inches apart. Steve’s breath is warm on Tony’s skin.

He chooses his words carefully. Breathless, with a curious grin, he says, “Because I’m right. And I’m not the first to catch on. You’re not as—” he watches Steve’s expression, “ _Straight_ as you pretend to be.”

The truth hovers, half said between them, electrically charged.

Steve’s jaw flexes. He says nothing, and the lack of denial is as good as a confession.

Tony’s eyes widen. “I’m right, aren’t I? It’s true.”

“You should be sure you’re right before you say something like that. You should be careful.”

“You don’t have to threaten me.”

Something between fury and fear crosses Steve’s face. Tony recognizes it as vulnerability. He wonders how it feels for Steve, all muscle and imposing statue and power, to feel so exposed. And it’s thrilling, to put him in that position. It’s a power struggle that’s only so delightful because of how easily the dynamic could be reversed.

“It isn’t something that I want people to know,” Steve says, slow.

Tony bites his tongue. All the cards are on the table now. He says, looking up at Steve, right into his eyes, “Nobody will know. The dead don’t speak. It’ll stay here— with my body, I imagine. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending I have half a chance in hell of leaving here alive.”

“Don’t say that—”

“No. It’s the truth. And we both know it.”

Saying it makes it more real, though, in a visceral way Tony hadn’t anticipated. Steve’s shoulders curl in, softening, some tension dissipated; both of them are exposed, now. But Steve’s hold on Tony tightens, knuckles white, hard enough to hurt.

“A little tight, darling,” Tony breathes.

Steve glances down at his hand and releases his grip. Tony can’t tell what he’s thinking: is it ruined, that sublime tension soured by pity for Tony and his tumor, Tony and his seizure, Tony, resigned to his fate, a corpse still half animated?

The thought isn’t fair, there’s still so much left of him, and he feels—

Steve surges in close, and kisses Tony.

Teeth bumping, open mouthed, it’s clumsy and uncareful— needy, Tony realizes with growing delight— desperation. Tony hasn’t allowed himself to give this scenario more than a guilty, passing thought until now, but it feels right. Steve’s lips are warm.

He pushes Steve off of him, forcing their mouths apart, gasping. “What’s this?” he asks. He wants to make Steve bend.

Steve shrugs. His cheeks turn warm but he doesn’t look embarrassed. It’s the only spot of color, the blood in Tony’s mouth, the blood flushed to Steve’s cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t tell anybody. You’re won’t— You’re going to—”

He doesn’t finish the thought out loud. Tony couldn’t be more glad.

“Alright. Then what are you going to do?

Steve does that thing with his jaw again, thinking. Then he gently disentangles himself from Tony, and slides down. Tony watches him without breathing as Steve settles to his knees; he doesn’t seem to be shy.

“Anything you want.”

Tony remembers to exhale when he gets dizzy holding his breath. What happens in the cave stays in the cave, he thinks. Briefly— guiltily— Natasha crosses Tony’s mind. Then, Steve unzips Tony’s pants and puts his hands on him, and Tony stops being able to hold a thought in his head.

 _I never claimed to be a good man_.

Steve lets him pull his short cropped hair as he drowns out all the pain with pleasure. The only coherent thought Tony manages to string together in the moment is that this is definitely not the first time Steve’s done this— he had seemed all too eager, even.

It’s quick and dirty, nothing reverent about it except the look in Steve’s face when Tony breathlessly demands he look up at him, holding eye contact as Tony builds to a finish.

It ends too fast but it’s probably for the best. Tony goes boneless, after, every ounce of energy sapped from him. Exhausted and sated, he sighs, tipping his head back against the cliff wall to catch his breath. Steve even has the manners to clean Tony up when he’s done, with his mouth, and he doesn’t draw attention to it when Tony’s too drained to get hard again.

“You’re good at that.”

Steve wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He cracks his neck, as though he’s just been through a training exercise, not a blowjob. “So I’ve heard,” he says, crawling up to sit next to Tony, leaning back against the rock.

Tony’s brows shoot up, amused. “God, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Steve shrugs, but there’s a pleased smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

The rain has slowed a drizzle; the repetitive sound of it hypnotic. Tony’s eyes feel heavy; he’s bone tired. It crosses his mind to wonder if he hallucinated any of that. No. It had been real. Even he couldn’t have dreamed up something like that.

Steve watches the rain drip from the ledge a few feet past their feet. In their little overhang, they’re protected from the dampness. Under different circumstances, it could be called cozy.

“Would you take it as terribly offensive if I fell asleep? I think this is the most relaxed I’ve felt without a drink in— well, since this whole ordeal started.”

“Not at all,” Steve says. “I’ll take it as a compliment. And I’ll enjoy the quiet.”

Tony’s eyes fall shut involuntarily, and he grins. “Was that a crack at my big mouth?” he says, delighted, “Because after that little performance, you’re hardly one to talk.”

“Go to sleep, Stark.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

* * *

The relief doesn’t last, but the pain of his injuries dull anyways. It isn’t a good sign. It’s his headache that wakes him, a familiar pain that is almost a comfort— the tumor is a constant. Not that it matters much to Tony what’s causing the throbbing when he opens his eyes to icy white sunlight. An indeterminate amount of time has passed; worse, he has absolutely no ideas where he is, for a minute.

“It happened again in the night,” Steve tells him.

“What?”

“A seizure, Tony. Are you feeling okay?”

“Ah. Mmhm.”

Tony lies on his back, his burns arm aching but in a distant way, the broken leg numb and heavy. He takes casual inventory of the sensations mentally. Jarvis stands just behind Steve, just out of the spot of sunlight, holding a silver tray of martinis. Tony licks his lips, bone dry.

“Thank God,” Tony says, to Jarvis, “I’m thirsty as hell.” He laughs and Steve’s expression turns uneasy. Something inside of him hurts in response to laughter, but the pain’s too nebulous to place.

“Very good, Sir,” Jarvis says.

“Whoever said laughter’s the best medicine has never had one of Jarvis’s famous Bloody Marys,” Tony says. No, that’s not right. He blinks. “Dirty martini. Whoever said laughter’s the best, you get it.”

“Why don’t you have some water.”

Tony shakes his head and snaps his fingers in Jarvis’ direction. “Bring those over here, old chap. I’m dying for it.”

“Of course, Sir, whatever you like. However, if I’d have known that you liked company of _his_ kind, I might have mixed up something a little more… fruity,” Jarvis says, lip curled judgmentally at Steve.

Okay, maybe it’s not politically correct, but Tony laughs. And laughs. And laughs. Because, come on. It’s not nice, but it’s sort of true. “He doesn’t mean it, Steve, don’t you worry. Always had a way with words. He tends not to like my overnight guests,” Tony explains, “God, yo’ve seen how he grumbles whenever Natasha’s in the room.”

Steve just stares.

“Who?”

“Jarvis,” Tony says; it’s obvious. He points to where Jarvis stands with a tray of— “Oh.”

There’s nobody there. It happening, again.

“You’re seeing things? Hallucinating?”

“Apparently. Withdrawals, I’ll admit it. But it’s passed, now,” Tony says. The truth is, he’s scared shitless. Just because he has a rough idea of what’s happening to him doesn’t make him comfortable with it, and he’s never had to white knuckle it like this before. There has always been a silver tray of cocktails just the ring of a bell away, for Tony.

He’s trying to downplay it for Steve’s sake, but the writing’s on the wall.

“What can I do?”

“Be a doll and mix a drink? Say, do you know how to make a highball?” Tony says. Steve doesn’t laugh.

“How bad is it really?”

Tony considers lying. Steve might even believe him. Tony says, “It could be worse.” Not untrue.

“Are you dying?”

“Million dollar question, huh?” He’s not being frustrating on purpose but he can’t seem to turn it off. Tony’s the expert deflector, but Steve can’t seem to hide a thing. He’s flashing frustration and fear like a neon sign. “Perk up, cupcake. You’re better looking when you smile. Let’s not make a whole event of this, huh?”

And maybe it’s intentional, using humor and poking at all Steve’s sore spots to distract from the startling immediacy of his own mortality. It’s a terrifying thing, to look death in the face. Tony doesn’t like to feel small. In a roundabout way, this is also his way of making it easier for Steve. Like the more obnoxious Tony acts for the remainder of his life, the less it’ll affect the old Captain to lose him.

He gets the sense that a man like Steve isn’t used to feeling too ineffective.

“Drink the damn water,” Steve orders, slipping into his Captain voice.

“Ah, the domineering leader is back,” Tony sighs. Despite the lack of a reaction, he knows Steve doesn’t miss the way Tony says it, a backhanded comment on how eager to get on his knees Steve had been. The memory might just be worth the early grave, a trophy conquest.

Tony sips when Steve puts the water to his lips but it only upsets his stomach. Steve looks satisfied, anyways, feeling like he’s doing something to help.

He rises and starts pacing again. Reaching out , he drags his fingertip against the cliff’s wall. “It’s nearly dry.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Steve is like a caged animal, all feral desperation, single-minded. “I think I could do it.”

“Don’t make me watch you break your neck.”

Looking up, Steve sets his jaw and tests a handhold just above his eye level. Putting his weight on one foot, he hoists himself up, balancing a foot off the ground on a narrow outcrop. Tony holds his breath. For a second, it seems like he could really do it, easy as that. He seems to defy gravity, like a spider on the wall.

Then his hand slips and he stumbles, losing his footing in a cascade of little pebbles bouncing to the ground. “Damn it.”

“What’d I tell you?”

Steve doesn’t look convinced. “I just have to find the right way.”

* * *

Tony spits in Steve’s eye. “Why don’t you say it again to my face?” He’s trying to hit him, swinging his arms madly, even against the screaming pain, but one just hangs limp from his shoulder like a dead ham, and the other is too weak to generate much force. “Fucking say it to my face, coward, what’re you waiting for?”

“Tony, stop. Stop.” Steve grabs him, tries to hold him still. Tony dislocates his own boulder and twists his head around violently, sinking his teeth into Steve’s shoulder, right into the muscle. Disappointingly, Steve hardly even flinches and his grip on Tony holds.

“What’re you doing? C’mon. You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says.

“I’m going to hurt you,” Tony screeches, “I _heard_ you, I know what you called me. You’re trying to ruin my life. I’m _engaged_ , I never thought I’d get to have that and you’re trying to _—_ What happened to not wanting people to know?”

Steve doesn’t react, using the force of his body to pin Tony against the ground, forcing him to be still.

“I heard you tell Natasha what we did. That I’m a—”

“She’s not here.”

“Just because I let you—

“Shh.”

“Doesn’t make me a—”

Steve puts pressure on Tony’s chest until the fight goes out of him.

“I know. I know you’re not,” Steve treasures, practically lying on him to keep him from hurting himself, “You’re not like that. Natasha isn’t here. Nobody knows.”

When Tony comes back down to Earth, he’s ashamed of himself. They don’t talk about it.

* * *

Steve climbs out.

It takes him all day and Tony can’t stand to watch him, every time he starts to lose his grip. Even super soldiers weaken with a lack of food and water. The sun starts to go down. Steve leans toward the ledge to peer down at Tony from the top.

Tony has deteriorated rapidly.

“How’s the weather up there?” he asks, pausing to cough. The little bit of heat has vanished with the sun, and Tony’s freezing. For a while, he’s been shivering, but then that stopped.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough,” Steve says.

“Mm. I’m right behind you, just gotta limber up,” Tony says. He’s as limp as a rag doll. Steve’s face is lost in its own shadow, but Tony can tell he isn’t smiling. “You don’t believe me?”

“I’ll bring a rescue team.”

“Waste of time,” Tony says, then he chuckles, “Beam me up, that’d be faster. Beam me up, Scotty.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Steve says, “I think you’re seeing anythings again.”

“Star Trek, Steve. Really?” He waves his hand emphatically. “The Enterprise. The final frontier. You know. It’s culture.”

“Ah. My mistake,” Steve says.

“Whatever, you wouldn’t make a good Scotty, always. No sense of humor.”

A pause. Then, humoring Tony, Steve says, “Alright. Who would I be, then?”

“Spock.” It’s too good. He laughs, again. “But his eyebrows are better. And I don’t think Spock gives blowies.”

“Right.”

Tony can’t feel his extremities. He’s so cold. “I’m Kirk. In case case you were wondering. Captain Kirk,” he continues. Steve has no idea what Tony’s rambling on about, but it’s more for his own benefit. Without the company of another person down here with him, it feels darker. Less of a cave, more of a crypt. He misses his bed. He misses lights and drinks and Natasha and hot showers.

He misses Steve, even though he’s only a holler away.

“Tell me about Kirk,” Steve says.

“Charming, obviously. Large and in charge, you know the type, you almost pull it off,” he says. Soon, his own voice will be all he has left to keep himself company; Steve’s going to leave him here. “Serial womanizer, who can blame him. Alien chicks are kinky. More legs, more fun.”

Tony trails off, distracted; he’s seeing things again, in the dark.

“Hey,” Steve says, “Up here.”

“Sorry, I’m still alive,” Tony replies, a moment later, with a crawling feeling, “I’m just tired.”

“You sure?”

“Seeing thing,” he bites out.

“Oh.” A beat. “Just keep looking up.”

Steve falls silent again, for a moment. Tony keeps his eyes carefully trained on his silhouette far above, against the rapidly darkening sky. The last light has all but seeped away below the horizon.

“Tony,” he says, hesitating, “I have to go. I can’t stay here. I gotta get help.”

Tony feels childish for being so bothered; this had always been the only outcome, and yet that doesn’t take sting out of the abandonment. He plays it off like he doesn’t care at all.

“I know, I know. Hey, for all I know, you’re not even here now.”

“I am. I’m real.”

“That’s what they all say, sport.”

“I’m real,” Steve says, firm, “And I’m going to bring help. I’m coming back for you.”

It goes without saying, Tony thinks, that it’ll be a body recovery mission. Then again, Steve is just charmingly naive enough that perhaps he really believes there’s some long shot that he’ll find help and get them back here in time.

He’s dying anyways. What’s now, versus six months from now? A year or two from now?

He thinks it doesn’t bother him, but when he opens his mouth to speak, he chokes.

“Are you okay? I can toss down my jacket, before I go?”

“Cap,” Tony says, throat impossibly tight, “Steve.”

The stars are out tonight, for the first time since the crash. Behind the dim outline of Steve’s silhouette, they twinkle like a field of diamond. All the points of light blur together.

“What is it?”

“You don’t get stars like this in the city,” Tony says. He isn’t crying. He’s just sad. “Light pollution, I never took it seriously until now. It’s fantastic. Look at that sky.”

When Tony blinks, the sky is starless again. He realizes it was another trick of the eye, but then Steve says, “Yeah. Beautiful.”

He must not have the heart to tell him.

“Would you just stay a minute, until I fall asleep?” It’s a pathetic thing to ask. Irrational.

“Sooner I go, sooner we get you seen by a medic.”

Tony doesn’t want to ask again, and he’s too tired to argue. “Please.” There’s a pause.

“Alright. You get your way,” Steve says, over the sound of gravel crunching, a few pebbles tumbling over the ledge as Steve adjusts his position to lie on his stomach by the mouth of the cave. “I’m here. Just get some sleep.”

Tony shuts his eyes.

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, everything bleeds together in the sunlight. Too bright. Too blurry.His head throbs, mouth a desert. “Steve?”

Nobody answers. He imagines the sound of a vulture’s cry.

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, Steve sits beside him and there’s water running down the walls of the cave. Thunder booms like a drum beat, and Steve hunches over between Tony’s legs so his face is hidden. Tony grins, lazily trying to shift his knees further apart.

“Why, hello there, Captain.”

But when Steve turns his head, cold revulsion blooms in Tony’s stomach because his face is all _wrong._ The whites of his eyes gleam inky black, black all the way around like the devil’s eyes. He grins with too many teeth and then there’s the sound of a lock clicking shut; eyes darting down, Tony sees, now, that Steve had not been undoing Tony’s pants, but securing his ankle with the ground with a metal cuff and chain.

He laughs like hellfire sounds.

The cave fills with water like an unattended bathtub. Up to their ankles, up to their knees. The water is hot, and red, and thick. Up to his stomach, up to his neck— he tries to swim but he can’t move, anchored in place, screaming out his last breath as it overtakes him and his lungs fill with blood.

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, Steve sits beside him and Tony starts to scream.

“Get away, devil,” he rasps, flapping his arms in disoriented terror.

The other details creep into focus. White walls and the a paper sheet crinkling under his squirming. There’s a sharp pinch as the IV needle rips out of the back of his hand.

“Ah,” Steve says, “There he is. As charming as ever.”

Tony stops thrashing.

He presses a button on the wall which summons a nurse in green scrubs.

“Aw, had a little whoopsie with the needle?” she says, snapping on gloves. “Hold on, sugar, this will just feel like a little pinch.”

“Ow,” he says.

“All done! Easy peasy,” the nurse— Nurse Jenny— says with a smile. Steve murmurs something to her and she nods, and everything kind of goes out of focus for a minute, and Tony thinks he must be getting the good stuff through that IV.

“Alright, I’ll bring them in,” the nurse says before disappearing. Tony’s head spins.

“She stabbed me,” Tony says.

“I know. Don’t worry about it.” Tony looks at the needle in dismay. He’s a little nauseous. He forces himself to focus on the ceiling for a minute until it passes.

“This is real?” he asks without moving his head. He’s almost afraid to look Steve in the eye, in case they’re inky and devilish. He’s had enough terror already. The doors swoosh open and shut and he hears footfall approaching— heels.

“It’s real,” Steve says quietly. “They’ll be happy to see you pulled through.”

“Where’m I?”

“You’re in the hospital, sunshine,” Jan says, stepping into Tony’s line of vision. “Alive and well. Thank God.”

Then Natasha is there, too. Her auburn hair has been blown out into perfect waves and she looks particularly well-rested for a woman whose fiancé has been in the hospital. “Alive, sure. But well is pushing it.” She smiles, cat-like and beautiful.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Jan chirps.

Tony presses his hands to his eyes, overwhelmed. “Natasha? What’s she talking about?”

“I’m right here, babe.” Her heels click against the linoleum floor as she crosses the room to be at his side. Awkwardly, Steve relinquishes his chair and sort of backs himself into a corner, as though he’s somehow imposing.

“Sore loser?” Tony says. Natasha taps her candy red nail on the side of the bed frame.

Steve coughs. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“She hates to lose a bet,” Janet says, and then, “Oh.”

Tony might be slow but he does eventually connect the dots. He frowns. Not the most encouraging news to wake up with. “Dear, you bet against me?”

“Don’t be sour, Tony,” she says, leaning in close and kissing his temple. Enveloped in the fragrance of her perfume, feminine and cloying and spiced, Tony almost forgets what there is to frown about. It feels like it’s been eternity since he’s smelled anything other than smoke and burning and man sweat. “The odds were against you. It wasn’t personal.”

It feels a little personal. That’s always his problem.

He inhales a lungful of that familiar smell and sighs, reaching up absentmindedly to twist a strand of her hair around his finger. Natasha gently bats his hand away.

“I put fifty on you pulling through,” Jan says, all smugness and dimples. “But it was just in good fun. We were worried sick, Tony. Really.”

Then why does Natasha look like she just came here from the salon?

Steve clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. Unlike the girls, Steve looks like he hasn’t had a full night of sleep in a week. Tony notices a few things at once: his shirt’s on inside out, the tag sticking out just under his chin, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Despite having obviously showered, he hasn’t taken the time to shave— light blonde stubble has grown out all over his jaw. It’s funny looking.

“Thank you for caring so much, but there was nothing to worry about,” Tony says, eyes darting toward Steve, “I was in good hands.”

“You got _lucky_ , bug,” Natasha says.

“Indeed I did.”

“I was talking to Janet,” she says, reaching over Tony, her breasts hanging in his face almost distracting him too much to care that she’s pulling his wallet out of a small plastic bin on the nightstand. She pays Janet fifty dollars of Tony’s cash, and Tony feels distinctly like he’s outlived his usefulness.

“Ahem,” Steve says, “Jan, maybe we should give these two some space.”

Natasha straightens up and smooths out the creases in her expensive jacket, her diamond engagement ring catching the light and twinkling. “That’s nice, Cap, but there’s no need I’m afraid. As much as I’m loving, _this—”_ she gestures in vague distaste to the hospital bed containing Tony, “I’m afraid I actually have somewhere I have to be tonight.”

“Both of us do,” Jan says, throwing a wink in Steve’s direction. Tony doesn’t even try to puzzle that one out, right now. He’s still stuck on the fact that he’s being left alone again.

You’re leaving?” Tony says. He realizes a moment too late just how pathetic he sounds, and he wonders how full of drugs he must be to lose his edge. He’s briefly acutely aware of how he must look from the outsider’s perspective: the eccentric wealthy playboy with a losing personality and just enough medical issues to catch himself a hot wife, with a mile long pre-nup and will agreement. It isn’t like that, with Natasha, of course. He knows it’s not about the money with her, but he could see why people might think it. Sometimes, it seems like she doesn’t actually like him that much.

He has nothing to complain about; he’s lucky that in the little time he has left, anyone is willing to spend it by his side. Well. Figuratively by his side. Natasha wraps a red scarf around her throat and slide on a pair of designer shades.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Tony. But you understand. It’s a standing engagement,” she says, but she doesn’t kiss him again, and when he reaches out toward her, she squeezes his hand once and then drops it like something unappealing. He thinks, what about our engagement? And then chastises himself for being so clingy and entitled.

Tony can’t blame her for this; they don’t talk about his health condition, usually. It’s the ugliest side of him, and Natasha is a stunning— and pragmatic— woman. It’s what makes her perfect for him. Tony is too proud, and a health amount of ashamed, to let her see him like this. Today has just been a helpful reminder of why: that pitying combination of discomfort and disgust. Her, in a hurry to leave and trying to pretend not to be, and Tony, obligated to act like it doesn’t bother him.

It’s easier to skip the whole song and dance by simply not telling her when he has chemo, or surgery, or appointments, so he can’t resent her for not being there to hold his hand. It’s just the way the do things.

“Of course, of course. You girls have fun. Get yourself something pretty, on me,” he says.

“I have already, you bought this dress,” Natasha says. Tony smiles. He loves her. He’s happy.

“I’ll call you.”

“We’ll get dinner when you’re on your feet again,” she promises.

Jan blows a kiss and then changes her mind and comes to give him a last minute hug, bringing with her a cloud of her own floral perfume. Heaven in a breath. God, he loves women. “Get well, Tony!”

“You know I will, darling. You ought to put your winnings on it,” he says with a perfectly false grin.

“I won’t be suckered into that again,” Natasha mutters on her way out, to which Janet titters in innocent amusement. Tony knows it’s a joke but—

But.

Something about the way the smile doesn’t reach her eyes, almost undetectable behind the tinted lenses of her glasses. Icy green, stunningly beautiful, always somewhat cold— it doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel just because she’s got a certain kind of look about her. Yet.

The girls leave, Steve holding the door for them. Instead of following them out, though, he lets the sound of their chatter and high heeled footsteps fade away. Then, he looks at Tony.

“So,” Tony says, the door clicking softly shut, “Did you put money on me, too? Good odds, I hear. Easy money. Actually, you know what. I don’t want to know.”

“I don’t gamble,” Steve says stiffly. Standing straight as a ramrod, he holds his arms behind his back, as though for a military inspection.

“At ease, soldier,” Tony says, patting the chair beside the bed. “You look so tense it’s making my headache somehow worse. Would you sit down and take a load off?”

“I’m fine here.” Oh.

Tony starts to backtrack. “You don’t have to stay. In fact, it’s actually, probably, better if you go.” Once he starts, he can’t be stopped, “ _In fact_ , I think it would be ideal if we just, never talk about the whole thing. And if you never spoke to me again, well.”

Well, that would blow. But it might be easier than this.

“Ah,” Steve says, understanding. He grinds his jaw, and his eyes dart down. “Well, I guess I should be relieved.”

“That I’ll keep my mouth shut, you mean?” Tony asks. It comes out much sharper than he intends. “I’ll be you were kind of hoping, just a little bit, that I’d stay brain dead in here, huh? Just to be safe? What happens in the cave stays in the cave, and all that? I bet you’re pretty disappointed. Heaven knows I would be, if I were you.”

Steve blinks up him with a severe expression. “Why would I want that.”

Tony has to laugh, but it’s humorless and depressing. “Well, if I had to recall events, I would remind you that you had no interest in coming within ten feet of me until I reminded you that I would be too _dead_ to spread rumors about your fragile masculinity. And I recall you suddenly jumping on the chance to get your mouth on me, with that safeguard in place— How did we put it? Dead mean don’t tell tales? I’m trying to job my memory, you’ll have to forgive me. I’ve got some brain problems.”

Steve recoils. Tony has hurt his feelings. He should feel sorry, but he’s too vulnerable; the only way to regain control here is to lash out. To avoid being hurt, he hurts Steve first. That’s how real men do things. That’s how Tony and Natasha do things. That’s how Tony has always handled relationships. It’s about control.

“I never would have guessed you were so insecure,” Steve says.

“I never would have pegged you for a cocksucker, but life is full of surprises.”

After a beat, without looking Tony in the eye, Steve says, “I climbed back down. You looked dead, when I got back with the rescue team. They didn’t think there was any point, I could tell, they were just, going through the motions. Setting up the hitch, this rope and pulley system to get down the rock face, it was taking too long. I couldn’t wait. So, I went down. Climbed, the same way I climbed out. I just wanted to check your pulse. I didn’t know if you were alive. Maybe they were right. Maybe there was no point, that’s what everyone seemed to believe. Hell even your own— well. Obviously, you weren’t dead. You were breathing. I think, though, that another ten minutes, it would have been over.”

Tony says nothing.

“So,” Steve slowly comes across the room and lowers himself into the chair beside the bed. “I did breaths and compressions while I waited for the medics. Took them an hour. Apparently, everything’s regulated, nowadays. Can’t even take a shit without the government hearing about it. I asked them, why not just throw down the rope and pull us back up the old fashioned way? They said— they said to me, while I was trying to _beat_ the life back into you, that it would be a lawsuit waiting to happen. A lawsuit. That’s what they were worried about.”

“I’ve got a killer legal team,” Tony says.

“My point is, if I didn’t want you to make it, you wouldn’t have made it.” He clears his throat, and he won’t look at Tony directly. It occurs to Tony that Steve is emotional about this. It isn’t something he knows how to deal with. He isn’t used to people fighting that hard for him. He doesn’t understand the point.

Tony doesn’t know how to respond, and for some reason all he can think of is Natasha, perfectly made up. Dry eyed. Detached. It’s irrational, the feeling that she had somehow been disappointed to see him. She had been here, after all. It’s nonsense to think she hadn’t wanted him to survive.

Tony isn’t too naive to consider the possibilities logically, but they’re not married yet. She wouldn’t be entitled to any of his money, as far as she would know. (He has, of course, edited his will to heavily include her, but that’s neither here nor there, since she doesn’t know about it.)

But Steve looks like a wreck, and he’s here _still_ and Tony doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“I’m not sure what to say,” he admits.

“Well, a ‘thank you’ would be fine,” Steve says.. “We don’t have to talk about what happened, down there. If you don’t want, I mean. I just needed you to know that I’m glad you made it. That’s all I care about. I’m not worried about my, secret.”

“Thanks. Okay. Thank you.”

“But,” Steve says, tone shifted— careful, and almost defensive, “I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not ashamed of myself, or anything that we did, in the circumstances.”

“Well, I am.” He’s irritable and insecure— and it’s because Tony doesn’t think he’s ashamed for any of the reasons that he should be.

The scent of Natasha’s perfume has dissipated, but it’s like she’s there hovering between them.

Here’s what Tony inexplicably knows, and wishes he could forget: if it had been Natasha with him in that cave, she probably wouldn’t have been stupid enough to come back for him. The odds were against him, and Natasha is a pragmatist before a sentimentalist.

She probably wouldn’t have even wasted precious time lingering at the mouth of the cave to keep Tony company before he drifted off to what would have been his death.

If it had been Natasha, Tony realizes, he probably would have died of his own idiocy and addiction on day one, crawling through fire for three ounces of liquor. When Tony had been medivacced to the hospital, hanging on by a thread, she hadn’t been eating her own fingernails after a few sleepless nights of worry, counting the rise and fall of his chest in that hospital bed; fair enough, considering Tony managed to get his dick wet the few days they were apart. He’s scum.

There’s nothing to blame her for— she isn’t totally uncaring, but she isn’t the type to make things harder than they need be, like Tony. She feels in her own way. Processes things privately. The grieving widow act wouldn’t suit her, she would move on quickly, and it was one of the things that drew him to her— he didn’t want to ruin a life on his way out the door.

He thinks, they deserve each other.He’s wealthy and sloppy and needy, and she’s cold and unbothered and beautiful. It should be enough to get what you deserve.

Except now there’s a hole opened up inside of him where ehe wants for something more than that. A deep, dark cave that has always been there, that he’s been too careful to fall into. There’s no clawing your way out, he thinks, when you fall in. When you catch a glimpse of what it might be like to be loved the way you never let yourself hope for.

For a moment, he hates Steve.

He scrubs his hand over his unshaven, hollow face; it’s nonsense. It’s the drugs. It’s the tumor. The withdrawals. Hell, call it a trauma response, baby duckling imprinting on the man who sucked his dick and dragged him out of hell alive. But he couldn’t love Steve.

(That isn’t the question.)

Steve stands up to leave. “Just so you know, I wouldn’t tell anyone. I won’t. If you’re worried about Natasha, you shouldn’t. People do crazy things, when they think they’re dying. I’ve seen it before. It doesn’t have to mean a thing. It’ll be like it never happened.”

But it might mean something.

(No, the question is, could Steve love him?)

Of course not. And that’s an easier pill to swallow. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s how to be rejected. The second they slap a bracelet on his wrist and let him check out, Tony will wheel himself into the first bad he finds that has a ramp entrance.

“Thank you,” he says.

Steve nods, mouth pressed flat in a tight smile. “Get well. You know where to find me.”

He reaches for the door handle.

“Wait.” Frozen in place, Steve looks over his shoulder at Tony. “You can stay. If you like.”

“I’d hate to bother you. You need to rest.”

Tony swallows. It isn’t easy, letting himself be vulnerable. If Steve laughed at him, if he gave him that pitying, disgusted look that Natasha had perfected, Tony might just die. He does it anyways.

“Just— until I fall asleep.”

Understanding flickers across Steve’s face. He exhales. “Ah,” and his expression softens— infuriatingly kind, after every horrible thing Tony’s sad. The sort of kindness he wants to mistake for pity so he can shut himself off from it, safer alone.

Steve’s civilian shoes squeak on the white linoleum as he comes back to sit by the bed. Intuitively, he seems to realize how embarrassing it had been for Tony to ask, so he doesn’t look at him, or try to talk.

Instead, he picks up a magazine, the one from the top of the stack, and opens to a random place. Thumbing through the pages, he pretends to be interested in a year old edition of _Food and Wine Magazine_.

Tony closes his eyes, letting his head sink into the pillow. He’s ashamed, for a second, of how much better he feels with Steve sitting beside him in companionable silence. It’s better than he deserves, but he’s selfish enough to take it. He has a lot to think about tomorrow but for now, he pushes the thoughts down. Letting the drugs slide over him, he goes to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Tony is a practicing alcoholic with no intention of intentionally going sober, and he goes through the stages of withdrawal graphically (I have done my best to research these stages and depict them with some degree of accuracy but please take it with a grain of salt; it's quite extreme in his case, and I don't have first hand experience with alcohol detox.) Bodily fluids, vomit, seizures, hallucinations, etc.
> 
> Tony is canonically terminally ill with an inoperable brain tumor, character discuss his death frankly as an inevitable, immediate event. Tony also experiences depression about his circumstances which affects his attitude toward death which may be extremely triggering for some readers so please proceed with caution.
> 
> Steve and Tony survive a plane crash on screen. There is a resulting fire which Tony is in. He gets badly burned, and the pilot is killed, and his corpse is described in some amount of detail.
> 
> There's a lot of homophobia from multiple characters. I avoided explicit slurs but they're implied. A sex act occurs between Tony and Steve while Tony is engaged to Natasha. The sex act is consensual on both sides but technically, it is performed under sort of circumstantial consent, and the circumstances change after the fact. I'm probably being way more careful than I need to be here but better safe than sorry.
> 
> Choosing to mention, also, that Natasha is vaguely used as a plot device/obstacle between two male characters which is like, a little narratively misogynistic, but canonically she is only with Tony for nefarious purposes so I think I feel okay about this, (and also I love her anyways.) 
> 
> I think that covers it.
> 
> Notes:
> 
> This work was inspired by 'comfort zone' by Welcoming_Disaster, linked above, please give the original fic a read and a comment. It's a lovely 1k 616 Steve/Tony moment, and the author is very talented. Also, if you enjoyed my fic, you will certainly enjoy Welcoming_Disaster's other works, because she specializes in perfectly characterized Ults Steve/Tony, and I was very inspired by her body of work. Particularly, her recent work 'fun & games' inspired me to reread Ults canon in a whole new light. Cannot recommend it enough.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me for this excessively long note! And thanks for reading.
> 
> edit: my my [tumblr!](https://ghosthan.tumblr.com/)


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